


Where in the World is Jesse McCree?

by amarivelous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:25:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarivelous/pseuds/amarivelous
Summary: Jesse McCree didn't answer the Overwatch recall. It shouldn't have surprised anyone, and it didn't surprise Fareeha Amari. But against all her better judgment, she wondered.





	

"If _you ever need me kid."_

\---

"A recall?" Fareeha said, straightening up more than she meant to. She couldn't have possibly heard correctly.

"That's right," Lena's voice crackled over the comm nestled in Fareeha's ear. "Call went out to the whole lot. Knew you weren't on the list and figured you'd want to know!"

She didn't need to see Lena to hear the wink in her voice. Fareeha narrowed her eyes at her takeout container of kushari as she pulled it from its plastic bag. "I'd want to know about highly illegal activity?" Fareeha said pointedly. She had read the Petras Act quite thoroughly.

"Oh, it's not all that," Lena said with a chuckle that wasn't at all subtle. "Just a friendly get-together is all."

"Right," Fareeha deadpanned, grabbing a fork and sitting down with her dinner. "And who sent their RSVP?"

In Lena's shoes, Fareeha would have been cautious. One whispered word, especially from a member of Helix Security, would bring the U.N. heavy-handed brand of justice down on all of them. Yet Lena was no fool, and still she continued. "You mean from the old gang? Not too many of 'em, sad to say. Angela got back right away - she said no - and there's Winston and me. Brigitte said Reinhardt's ecstatic, and Torby's being cheeky but it sounds like he's coming 'round. Only one unaccounted for is Jesse."

Fareeha had hoped to hear something about her mother, that Ana had secreted a message to Winston and Fareeha could finally give her the telling off she deserved. But she faltered, hearing that name. "Why do you say so?" she asked, prodding at her noodles. "Do you know if he's even alive?"

Lena laughed that sunshine laugh of hers, the sort that made a whole room brighter even when she wasn't in it. "Don't suppose you've read the papers, have you?"

A notification _pling_ ed on the tablet at the other end of the table, and Fareeha reached over to pull it closer. Her eyes flicked over the text and pictures that appeared, her eyebrow slowly rising up her forehead. "This can't be him. What would he be doing at a ramen shop in"--she squinted--"New Jersey?"

"Damned if I know, love," Lena said with an audible shrug. "But it's him to a T, idn't it? Gunsmoke an' all."

"...He can't possibly still dress like he used to, can he?" Fareeha asked, with a hint of desperation.

Lena giggled. "Do you remember Jesse McCree?"

Fareeha did. And Lena had a point.

\---

Fareeha was so focused, staring so intently around the corner, that she didn't hear the footsteps coming up behind her. She squealed when someone poked her in the back of the head.

"Gabriel," she hissed when she spun around, nearly tripping over her own gangly legs. "Stop it!"

Gabriel smirked the way he always did when he caught her where she shouldn't be, laughing quietly - like he buried it deep down in his chest - and folding his arms. "Nobody likes a snoop, Rea."

"Who's that guy?" she said, her anger draining away in the face of opportunity. She pointed around the corner, where mum was standing in front of the Watchpoint doors with a man she'd never seen before. He had a bandana wrapped around his neck and a wide-brimmed cowboy hat tilted down in front of his face. Mum was talking to him in her quiet-but-stern voice so Fareeha couldn't hear what she was saying, and he didn't say a word back. He looked - when his hat tilted back, when she could just barely see his whole face, his narrowed his eyes, his set jaw - he looked sad. Angry.

"Private McCree," Gabriel said, crouching down beside her. "You're tougher than him. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not," said Fareeha defensively. "He just looks weird. And what’s he mad about?"

"Hard to explain,” Gabriel said, patting her on the shoulder with a shrug. “But 'fraid you might have to get used to him."

\---

Fareeha didn't care. She had no reason to. In fact, she had plenty of reasons _not_ to - training, paperwork, the fragile work-life balance that kept her apartment from turning into a neglected hazardous waste zone. But while she tried to do dishes or sort through reports or focus on a damn crossword, she kept wondering.

I'd been a long time since she'd seen Jesse McCree - at least six years, she thought, forgetting about a seven-letter word for a kind of rice and putting her pen to her mouth. He left Overwatch right before - well, before everything went wrong. Or right around then. She didn't like thinking about those times and didn't want to dig deep enough to remember it perfectly.

But _did_ she see him then? She wondered in the middle of a workout, making her lose count on push-up fifty-nine. She knew he was around, had exchanged messages with him, but between his duties and her schooling she wasn't sure she'd actually seen him in person for much longer. It must have been before she went away to university, and well before she joined the army.

So there was no use wondering about it, she decided as she picked up rice and vegetables at the store (wishing they were kushari). An old acquaintance from her childhood - a famously capricious one - didn't answer the call of duty when summoned. Hardly surprising. It wasn't worth wasting time or thought on.

But despite her very firm decision wayward thoughts popped into her mind anyway, small memories that darted in and out like unwanted pests.

And despite all her better judgment, she wondered.

\---

She didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything. She slid quietly onto the bench beside him in the Gibraltar cafeteria, setting her bowl of curry on the table in front of her (it looked funny, but she had other things on her mind). Silence fell on them like a heavy blanket, and now that she was here, she wasn't sure what to do next.

Thankfully, Private McCree did that for her - she saw him look up at her slowly from the corner of her eye, heard him huff like a bull as she poked at her food.

"Plenty of other places to sit, kid," he said gruffly. She tensed up.

"I want to sit here," she said back, sinking more comfortably into her uncomfortable seat and taking a bite out of her curry. It tasted as funny as it looked.

"Trust me," he sneered, leaning his elbows on the table and ducking into her view. "You don't wanna be around me. I'm a bad influence."

For the first time she finally got to see him up close, and he was a lot younger than she thought he would be. Way older than her, but not as old as mom - maybe seventeen or something. He was paler than she’d expected too, and besides a tuft of hair under his lip he barely had a beard. He scratched at a spot below his nose where a mustache probably should've been growing and peered at her intensely.

She looked him up and down. He'd gotten rid of the bandana, but he still had the cowboy hat and---

"What's BAMF mean?" she asked, staring at the letters emblazoned in gold on his belt buckle.

A hint of red quickly grew beneath his eyes. Fareeha wondered why he bothered to wear that thing (and in _shiny gold_ ) if he was going to be embarrassed by people asking about it. He turned and pulled the brim of his hat down. "Don't worry about it."

"Don't tell me what to do."

He let out a half-cough half-laugh, the toughness almost shaking out of him. When he looked back his glare was gone, a small chuckle in its place. "Well aren't you a little something. What's your name?"

"Fareeha."

"Ah, so you're the Captain's kid."

"I'm not a kid," she snapped pointedly. She was twelve - almost a teenager.

"Sorry about that, little lady."

"I'm not a lady either."

He huffed, exasperated, and exaggerated rolling his eyes. "Apple doesn't fall far. You're as hard to please as she is."

"Maybe you're not trying hard enough."

For a second his face snapped straight again, like a computer freezing and resetting. She felt a pinch of regret - maybe she shouldn't be so mean. But it smoothed back into a slight smile as he shook his head, blowing out his breath like a tired horse. "Maybe, kid. Maybe."

Right then she didn't know how to feel about Private McCree. But he was funny, and he talked to her. So that was something.

\---

"Jesse?" Angela said, taken aback. She _hmm_ ed gently, the sound tickling through the receiver. "No, I have not heard from him in years. With good reason, I believe. Why do you ask?"

Fareeha suddenly felt self-conscious. Angela was a reasonable soul, and for all their disagreements about the purpose of war and national security measures, she seemed to think Fareeha was too. The idea of correcting her with this foolish quest suddenly felt ill-planned.

"Aah," Fareeha said, thinking fast, "There’s been talk of renewed Overwatch activity recently. He's an old friend - I was curious if he might be involved."

"Unlikely," Angela said, perhaps more sternly than she meant to (or perhaps just as sternly as she meant to). "He was part of Gabriel's program - he would be wise to stay discrete."

"I don't suppose you heard about the ramen shop?"

"I'm not sure I want to."

"But," said Fareeha, delicately testing the waters. "Do you know how he might be contacted? Just to make sure."

Angela paused for a long moment - Fareeha hoped it wasn't out of disapproval, but she could see that tightening face clearly in her mind. "Now that you mention it," Angela eventually said, though less disapproving and more uncertain, "I think he left me some contact information, before he fled Blackwatch. But it's been so long, I don't have any idea where it might have gone.”

That sounded instantly familiar. In a quick shock of memory, Fareeha realized he'd given her the same: she remembered a small slip of paper with a short note and a phone number, clearly in his hand. She swore under her breath for not keeping closer track of it, though she quickly resigned to the idea that it wouldn't matter. Whatever the number was, she doubted it would still be active.

"Perhaps you can keep an ear out for me?" Fareeha asked, more bashfully than she would have hoped.

Angela sighed as if it were an imposition - but, at least, not a large one. "I can't promise anything, but if I do hear something, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Mercy."

Angela chuckled.

\---

Jesse had a book in his bag. Fareeha blinked and squinted at it, trying to read the cover without leaning forward and losing her balance. Then Jesse's gun went off again - five shots in what sounded like a single, angry blast of sound - shocking her back to attention in time to watch all five cans topple off the opposite fence, hitting the ground as one.

Fareeha had seen him do that a thousand times now, and it never got boring. "How'd you learn to do that?" she asked him for the thousandth time, as he spun and holstered his gun with a flourish.

"Practice, kid, and lots of it."

"But _where_ ?"

"A gentleman never kisses and tells," he said, turning toward a second set of cans lined up on an adjoining fence. The ocean crashed below, lapping up against the cliff where the Watchpoint was perched, sun setting in the distance and casting Jesse's impromptu shooting range in a bright orange glow.

Normally Fareeha would just grumble and ignore him after that, maybe pick up the homework she'd abandoned behind a fence post and pretend to be interested in it. But this time she had a secret weapon.

"Torbjorn says you were in a gang," she announced, feeling sly. Jesse didn't respond; he stood with his back to her, silent and still, then snatched the gun from his hip and fired. Every can but one toppled to the ground. He sighed, replacing the pistol, and she was sure she heard him swearing something like _goddamn dwarf_ under his breath.

"Were you?" Fareeha pressed, though it wasn't really a question.

He ran a hand over his face, the way someone older and hairier would stroke his beard. He took his time with it - she was just about to yell at him when he pulled out his gun again. "Yep," he said, trying to sound casual as he pulled out a handful of bullets and started reloading it. "Did a lot of things I'd rather not talk about, if you don't mind."

"Why'd you do it?" she asked, swinging her feet through the space between the fence panels. "Did they make you join?" She'd read stories like that before - heroes forced to follow a villain's orders before they used their wits to save the day.

"No, they didn't make me," he said, clicking the cylinder back into place and spinning it. "Joined on my own."

"Why?"

"Well, kid"--he held his gun out straight, aiming at nothing, as if he were looking at something very far away--"when everyone says you ain't shit your whole life, you start to believe 'em. So if someone comes around says you're worth something after all, you don't turn your nose up at 'em."

Fareeha stared at the back of his head where his light brown hair poked out beneath his hat. She'd known him for years, but it felt like he was talking about someone else. She suddenly had a strange, twisting feeling in her stomach, like she’d eaten something off.

"Didn't feel like I had much choice," he muttered, quiet like he was just talking to himself.

Fareeha hit the rough, splintering wood with her heel. "You always have a choice," she said almost automatically.

Jesse finally looked at her, lip turned down and annoyance pressing hard on his eyebrows. But it only lasted a second before he cleared his throat and wiped it away. 

"Remember that, kid," he said as he walked toward her, spinning his gun expertly and depositing it back in its holster. "I mean it. Keep to that even when things gets hard. Promise?"

"I don't need to promise you. I'll just do it."

He chuckled. "Good. It'll save you a lot of troubles. Trust me on that."

He didn't wait for her as he strode back to the base, leaving her to gather up her stuff alone. Grumbling, she snatched up her bookbag and homework, then faltered mid-jog when she realized he'd left his bag, too. Idiot. Scooping up the dirty rucksack, she shoved a few boxes of ammunition back inside, and suddenly remembered the book as its faded yellow cover peeked out at her.

She wrapped her fingers around the worn paperback and pulled it out. _The Hell Bent Kid_ it read, next to a picture of someone dressed just like Jesse riding a horse. It looked ancient, with lines in the spine where it had cracked. Raising an eyebrow, she dropped it back inside, tying the bag up and throwing it over her shoulder.

Jesse really was weird, she thought as she jogged for the compound doors.

\---

"Jesse McCree," Fareeha said into her tablet's microphone, cradling a warm teacup between her hands. Windows blinked to life across her screen - an encyclopedic article about Overwatch, court documents labeled _McCree v. City of Santa Fe_ from twenty-five years ago, some unhelpful phone directories.

Scrolling further she found a few forums referencing the ramen shop incident and some ancient Overwatch adulation blogs, but little recent or of use. Out of sheer curiosity she peeled through an article on the Deadlock Gang - her lip twisted over an analysis of just how large their illicit weapons-trading network was, stories of shootouts along the border between the U.S. and Mexico, interviews with old members long since expired in prison. Jesse's name only came up in a roster at the article's end, but the small, strange twist of relief in her stomach somehow seemed worse than disgust.

Running a hand over her face, she stood and walked to the window, looking out at the soft yellow haze of sunset over Giza's darkened streets. It was hard to reconcile that information with the person she'd known - he'd never had a fondness for rules or order, but he'd still been kind, and Fareeha couldn't say her memories of him were unpleasant. However - her fingers tightened around her mug - there was no denying his work with Blackwatch, the reams of damning information that had poured out onto hundreds of newscasts just a few short years ago. Kind or not, charming or not, she knew what he was capable of.

She thought of her mother suddenly, without meaning to, like the universe was forcing the idea into her head with all its might. It had done that a lot lately. Snorting at nothing she sipped her tea, watching the dark crawl across the buildings in front of her, squares of light blinking into life one by one. She wondered what square her mother occupied tonight. She wondered if Jesse had a square of his own.

A cheerful _pling_ came from her tablet, and she glanced back at it as she lifted her drink to her mouth. A new window appeared at the top of her search: _FORMER OVERWATCH OPERATIVE INVOLVED IN TRAIN ROBBERY._

Fareeha nearly choked on her tea.

\---

She'd heard what Jesse said. She saw the shipping cart in the middle of the room covered in dozens of white cups, full to the brim with water. And she got the general idea of a _prank_ . But she and Jesse were definitely not on the same page.

"How is this funny?" she whispered as he carefully pushed the cart over to the corner of the room, crouching down in front of it.

"Come on, use your imagination," he said as he took two cups and lined them up, rim-to-rim, against the back wall of Gabriel's office. "This whole place is gonna be full from end to end. Think about the look on his face."

Fareeha gave him a peculiar look of her own, folding her arms over her chest. "I have to finish my homework," she said, regretting that she'd agreed to _take a break and help him with somethin'_ , even in the face of that snakelike grin that loudly warned her to stay away.

"Jeez kid, you need to loosen up," he said, waving her over as he lined up more cups. "You can get old later. Try livin' a little first."

She still didn't get how this was supposed to be fun or funny or any version of that, but she sighed resignedly and joined him on the floor, grabbing two cups. "Are you mad at Gabe or something?"

"Naw, never," he replied flippantly. "This ain't out of petty revenge, kid. Coulda just as easily been Jack or Captain Reinhardt."

"Or mum?"

"Now let's not get carried away."

They worked at it carefully, their small square of a dozen cups slowly growing to reach across the room. Once or twice Jesse left to get more, and at first she was sure he wouldn't come back ("You just wanted someone you could pin it on!" she hissed when he first disappeared through the door, pretending not to hear her) but each time he returned pushing a new cart of cups as quietly as she'd ever heard those things move. She and Jesse didn't talk but in time they worked themselves into a rhythm, placing cups and hissing and swearing in tandem. And as dumb as this was, it was at least kind of nice to be in the same room together - it felt like with all his _secret Overwatch missions_ they hadn’t seen each other in months. So this was something.

Soon the floor, the desk, file cabinets, and even Gabriel’s chair were covered in precariously-balanced white cylinders. The last was Fareeha's touch - when the cups around the desk were stacked almost too far out for her to reach, she carefully leaned over, balancing them on the curved seat. She almost toppled in the effort, but Jesse was quick to catch her around the shoulders and pull her back. “Hey, that's the spirit," he said with a thumbs up.

"All right," she said as she set down the last cup, eying the empty curve left for the door to swing. "How's that look?"

"Looks like fine work," he said, patting her on the shoulder. "Pretty fun, right?"

Fareeha shrugged noncommittally. "It's sad we won't get to see him when he finds it."

"Don't worry," Jesse said, tapping his ear. "You'll hear it."

They parted ways there, and she actually made an effort to sneak, still giddy with their success. She guessed Jesse was right - that had been _kind of_ fun. And it was nice to see him again after all this time.

She instantly changed her mind about that, though, when she went back to her homework and found all her books and pens glued to her desk.

\---

On push-up one-hundred and fifty, Fareeha stopped - arms straight, back straight, eyes narrowed at the wood floor below - and tried to process what she'd learned. A high-speed train had been hijacked on its way to Houston, Texas, in the United States. The official report had named Jesse McCree as the perpetrator (and Fareeha was one to believe official reports). Witness accounts made the story less clear, and because he had escaped custody, further information would not be forthcoming.

But she had the answer that mattered. He was alive somewhere near Mexico, apparently robbing the rich in some pseudo-altruistic crusade. That's all she wanted to know - that's all she _needed_ to know - and she could put this stupid search behind her.

She rolled over on her back, glaring at the ceiling. It was time to put Jesse McCree behind her.

\---

"Oh, Fareeha," Angela crooned, gentle poignancy spreading through her voice like cream through coffee. She didn't say it - she was too careful - but Fareeha could hear the hidden _what have you done?_ in her voice.

Fareeha stared at the floor, face blank. Her hand throbbed, bruised and bleeding at the knuckles. The cold steel wall pressed hard against her back, the floor below just as unforgiving. She lifted her hand slightly. "Broke it."

Angela's steps slowed for just a moment. Fareeha wondered if she was looking at the dent in the wall. Slowly Angela kneeled down beside her, and Fareeha hissed when the doctor took her hand.

"I'll have to check to make sure where the break is," Angela said matter-of-factly. "It may not heal correctly otherwise."

Fareeha stayed silent, wincing only slightly as Angela prodded and felt along her skin. Eventually she lifted that healing staff, its soft golden glow and gentle hum lighting the room. It felt ice cold.

Neither tried to break the quiet. Angela went over each finger individually, healing and testing it before moving to the next. Fareeha stared at a line where concrete slabs met in the floor. She wasn’t sure if Gibraltar had always been this cold, or it was just the rooms they set aside for guests. Or if it just felt like it today.

She didn't need to wonder if Angela knew about mum. Even if Jack (a walking grey shadow himself) hadn't already been to see her as soon as she arrived, proving that all of Overwatch knew, it was clear in the doctor's silence. It hovered over them like a crushing fog.

Fareeha's pocket vibrated. She ignored it. It vibrated again, and again. Slowly she reached for it with her good hand, pulling out her phone and getting ready to fling it against the opposite wall - when she saw the name. McCree. And the messages.

 _I_ said the first, clear on her screen, like it had been sent my mistake.

 _Im sorry kid_ said the second.

 _Here if u need_ said the third.

Fareeha breathed, deep and shaky. The phone sailed through the air and skipped across the floor, leaving flecks of glass in its wake. She jerked her hand free of Angela's grip and buried her face in her palms, hot tears burning down her wrists and arms. She heard the doctor say her name, leaned weakly against the shoulder offered her.

There was nothing he could do. There was nothing _anyone_ _could do_. And she didn’t need him reminding her.

\---

She'd nearly forgotten about the whole thing. She worked in so many hours of extra training in Helix's specialized base that her entire team started to notice, and she promised to buy them dinner again when the ribbing got too annoying to stand. She goaded herself into going on a date, even to a dance club or two (eyed a few lovely women even) before remembering quite clearly why it bored her. She switched it out for reading - books that had gone unglimpsed and undusted on her shelf were finally treated properly, pulled down and consumed over plates of kushari. Fareeha forgot what'd she'd meant to forget.

Then as she replaced her latest triumph - _The Forty Rules of Love_ ; no one could say she didn't appreciate the classics - she remembered. Two spaces away, on the other side of _The Maze Runner_ and _The Spy_ , she found a worn yellow paperback, _The Hell Bent Kid_ written in faded letters along the lined spine.

She eyed it for a long moment. She thought quite seriously about throwing it in the trash. But with a measured hand she carefully plucked it from its place, its cover feeling more like soft leather than factory-churned paper. Returning to her spot beside the window, she casually sank into her chair, licked her thumb and flipped it open. It had no power over her.

A slip of paper the size of a finger fluttered from where it had been trapped between the cover and the title page, drifting into her lap. Not the best bookmark, but it would do. She picked it up and returned it to its crevice, and spotted a scribble of writing on the back.

Fareeha stared. The book went unread that night.

\---

Someone had been in her quarters. She noticed it instantly when she opened the door, though as she scanned the dark, cold room nothing seemed amiss. Perhaps it was just a feeling. Or the smell of smoke lingering in the air.

Flicking on the lights and tossing down her bag, she quickly saw the one thing in the room that had changed: a new book on her desk with bit of paper sitting on top of it. She picked them up - _The Hell Bent Kid_ greeted her from the cover - and she unfolded the note, eyes narrowed curiously.

 _If you ever need me kid 575 462 2263 - M_ , it read.

She blinked, mouth drifting open. She didn't know what to think.

Months later, as pictures of the rubble that was once Overwatch headquarters filled global newscasts and word of Jack and Gabriel's deaths filled every street and corner shop, she finally understood.

\---

This was ridiculous, Fareeha thought, chastising herself like she would a pouting child. She sat with her phone held in front of her, three of the numbers dialed, her body and mind in a vicious duel for control. It had been six years, she thought, hitting the 4 and 6. Jesse couldn't be trusted with basic rules and regulations, let alone paying a cell phone bill on time. (She pressed 2 three times, the last one after a pointed but ineffective pause.) She had no doubt it there was a burner cell phone on the other end of this line, meaning it had likely been rusting at the bottom of a lake for years now. Yet with a sigh she dialed the last two numbers, resignedly tapping the bottom on her earpiece. She could get this curiosity dealt with, at least.

Miraculously, it rang. The number had been repurposed, Fareeha decided, instantly remorseful to whoever she was disturbing. There was a shifting sound through the earpiece as someone answered - another miracle - and she was already starting to apologize when she heard the voice on the other end.

"Hello?"

It felt like her earpiece had shocked her and momentarily short-circuited her brain. _No._ "Jesse?" she said in disbelief. "Jesse McCree?"

"Who is this?" replied that gruff, deeper but unmistakeable voice. His drawl was caked with sleep, and she could practically hear him running his hand over a poorly-shaven face. "How th'hell you'd get this number?"

"You gave it to me," she said, feeling unable to speak properly, and quite foolish immediately after.

"Aww, jeez,” he said, suddenly sounding guilty. “Look, I'm sorry, I know we had a fun time an' all, but I definitely didn't mean to give you this one. You'll probably just wanna lose--"

She felt her cheeks warm, and indignation finally punched through her shock. "It's Fareeha, you idiot!"

The line went silent but for a rustle of a static. For a moment she thought the call had been dropped, or he’d hung up, or perhaps she was very rapidly losing her mind and had never heard his voice at all. But then Jesse cleared his throat - quick and sharp like he’d swallowed a knot of rope and was trying to discretely cough it up - and spoke. "Run that by me again?"

\---

"Congratulations, Amari," came another voice, passing behind her as she cleared out the last of her locker. She waved vaguely behind her without looking up. It had been nice to see everyone off before she truly left the army behind - a surreal thought still - but even congratulations and well-wishes became exhausting quickly. She packed faster, shoveling a pile of papers and forgotten socks into her dufflebag. The sooner she escaped, the sooner she could get home, disappear into a long shower and recover from the world.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she scanned the room and broke into a brisk walk, hoping to make it to the front door without anyone else noticing her. She'd barely gotten in a single quick step before her foot slipped across the floor, and with an angry hiss she found a scrap of paper under her heel. No, a photo. She bent down to retrieve it and recognized it immediately. There was her younger self with her mother, Jack and Gabe and the rest of the original strike team. It was right after Jesse and Angela joined, she remembered, feeling guilty as tried to brush it clean.

She should throw it away, she thought reluctantly. Of course Helix knew about her and her lineage - no doubt that was part of why they sought her out - but for their newest recruit to idolize a group that had disgraced itself and brought shame on the international community? It wouldn't be proper.

She looked at it a moment longer - at her mother, her friends, the smudge she tried to carefully wipe off of Jesse's ridiculous hat.

It slid into the side pocket of her bag like it belonged there.

\---

Fareeha wished she had the wrong place. She stared at the sign swinging above the door to the bar - _Calaveras_ it read through chipped wood and peeling paint. Far from Dorado’s sleepy but serene main street, she felt acutely aware of what sort of rabble could be hiding in the dark alleys around her. And yet, when she looked at the scrawled instructions she'd taken down, there was no mistaking it.

She reminded herself, _once again_ , that there were dozens of better ways she could have spent her promised time off. Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside the swinging saloon doors and stepped inside.

It was underwhelming, honestly. Two worn-down looking men sat at the corner of the bar, speaking sullenly in Spanish. The bartender cleaned a faded but otherwise immaculate countertop, blowing a disinterested breath out through his mustache. Not the nest of goons she expected to find. That left her mind, however, when she looked to the other end of the bar and found Jesse McCree staring at her.

Fareeha stopped in place, her brain highlighting hundred fragments of him that she didn't recognize and a thousand more that she did. That same bullet-lined hat tilted back from his familiar triangle of a face. His beard had finally grown in and had neglected to stop. His left arm, sliding off the bar as he turned to face her, was gone, replaced with something mechanical. His torso was covered in a thick plate of metal and tubes that made her worry his arm had taken more of him with it. And below that, freshly shined, perched his golden BAMF belt buckle.

She realized with an intense pang of shame that she'd been gawking at him like a slack-jawed buffoon; she only felt a little better when she realized he'd been eying her the same way, tracing a slow trail from her face down her arms to the backpack cradled against her hip. His eyes climbed back up to meet hers. They stood in silence, surrounded by whispered Spanish and the soft clink of pint glasses.

And Fareeha, as hard as she tried, lost her battle against a laugh. "How do you dress even worse than before?" she said through her mirth, feeling like a fluffy white cloud was billowing in her chest. Jesse looked properly offended.

"Nice to see you too, kid," he said, and she caught the grin curling around his cigar. "Don't suppose you're old enough for an adult drink now are ya?"

Fareeha rolled her eyes and shook her head, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.


End file.
